Beautiful
by gyldedfynix
Summary: Danarius watches his little wolf, his Fenris, wanting to transform him into something more.  He manipulates and connives to bend the slave to his will.  Stream of consciousness, short one-shot.


I stood over the boy, towering, reveling in the pain I had caused him. He knelt on all fours, bending over the snow, turning it an ever darker shade of crimson. He was crying, hair white as the pristine ground on which he was cowering. He looked up, tears gathering even further in his olive eyes. Beautiful. The emotion only marked his face as more unique, the long elven nose complimented his shapely ears and long bone structure. His lips were full for an elf; the usual sallow skin was not present in this fine specimen. Slightly darker skin graced the fine bones and taut muscles of this body, contrasting wonderfully with the starkness of the hair on his crown, and lending him an overall earthy look. Quite rare for a city elf to display such secular features. Beautiful.

He got up, dusting the snow off his leather breeches, still staring at his master, wondering what I would be bidding next. A hint of defiance was present in the eyes, even then. A sign that some subconscious was wondering just why the boy was obeying my actions. He never acted on them, if he even knew they existed. But I did. I must make him mine.

He needed accoutrements. He needed something to make him truly unique. Genuinely special. Something to detail his physique, increase his inherent skills, amplify the ferocity of his image. Slaves supplied the blood needed for the process, but it would not suffice for the raw power. Blood would not burn into his skin, react to his will, or become part of him unlike any other. It would not make him what he needed to be. What I desired for him to be.

Dust was too fine. Sand, too coarse. Raw was too wild. Corrupted had taint. Refined was overly processed. No single source would satisfy. I spent weeks finding the right combination, the right consistency. It had to have the power of raw, with the stability of refined. It had to be viscous, but retain enough fluidity to create the intricate designs on his body. Tests failed. Resources wasted. The bodies piled higher as I searched for the right combination. I bought more. He was worth it. I must succeed. I will conquer. He would be my prize.

Others found out about my project, wanted the power for themselves. They could not have it. It was not meant for them. They were not worthy. I knew of his successes: I knew he defeated all who came against him-even those twice his age. He had speed and flexibility in battle, even while wielding a blade as large as he was tall. I held competitions to gain the right for the procedure. I encouraged him, enticing him with his family's freedom. He was eager. He wanted to please his master, to gain my favor. He played right into my hands. He won. The perfect archetype.

I had him come in at last, to view the project. He didn't understand. Stupid child. He didn't appreciate what I was giving him. What I had spent the last year doing for him. It didn't matter. It was ready. The process would be difficult to endure. It would be painful. It didn't matter. I would endure. I would ignore the pain. I spent many hours laying the groundwork onto his skin, drawing the markings that would make him belong solely to me. All would know that I had prevailed. That I had done what no other person had.

When the lyrium touched his skin, he screamed. A high-pitched wail of a child. It clashed horribly with his nearly perfect features, his now mature physique. I slapped him across the face. His head sank. I went from him, cutting the throat of a slave in the rear of the room. The blood fueled me, incited me, pushed me harder, further. I must finish my work. I was only halfway complete. My back hurt. My feet ached. My muscles spasmed and twitched irritably. My mind yearned only to complete its task. I picked up a vial, tipped a needle with the silver liquid, and began my work again. He woke many times during the process. He never stopped screaming. The tears became pools on the floor next to the chair. He shook. I made him stop: it would ruin the markings.

As the beams of light moved across the room, I marked the hours. By the time I had gotten to his abdomen, an entire day had passed. Still I pressed on. It would be worth it. He would be my crowning glory. As I slit the wrists of the last of my slaves, it counted thirty-three hours of toil. I finished the last of the designs on his feet. I stood, and gazed at my work. The lyrium glowed in his skin, setting off the room in a blue tone. It contrasted sharply with the crimson stains on the floors and walls. As he woke, his expression was vacant, searching. He did not know me. He asked me where he was, why there was blood all around him. He remembered nothing. Beautiful.

All who came to see him were afraid. I had him serve wine and cheese. He greeted those who would challenge me. All ran in fear. He was perfect. He was my prize. My pet. My little wolf to do my bidding. He killed without question. He served without question. But the eyes still shone with that defiance. His subconscious was not to be subdued. Yet, he never faltered, never wavered when given an order. But the eyes said no with each action. I must squelch that fire-snuff the flame of resistance out. He will never be anyone else's. He cannot be anyone else's. He is mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I kept Fenris's hair white for a reason. I understand that it seems likely that his hair turned white because of the ritual, but there are others in the game with white hair and dark eyebrows that don't have lyrium markings. won't let me post the link to a picture of him, but there is an elf in Darktown in Act I near the stairs to get to Anders's clinic with this visage.


End file.
